


scars we chose

by 26stars



Series: AU August 2020 [11]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU Meeting, Detailed description of the tattoo process, F/F, Grieving (May's way), Loss, Mentions of past deaths, Tattoo artist!Bobbi, idk if it's angst but it sure ain't fluff, memorial tattoos, tattoo artist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26stars/pseuds/26stars
Summary: Bobbi Morse has been giving the same series of tattoos for a regular customer for a few years now. She can only speculate their meanings, since the customer never says much. And as grateful as Bobbi is for the business, she kind of wishes this woman dealt better with the obvious pain she carries.Then one day, the woman has a different request.For AU August day 13: Tattoo Artist AU
Relationships: Melinda May/Bobbi Morse
Series: AU August 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860802
Comments: 18
Kudos: 38
Collections: AOS AU August 2020





	scars we chose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazyfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyfish/gifts).



> Still haven't watched the series finale so no spoilers please!

Bobbi has been a practicing tattoo artist for eight years by the time she meets Melinda May.

The bell above the door rings on a weekday morning, fairly early for a customer in Bobbi’s line of work, and she looks up from her little alcove in the back to see a small Asian woman standing in the lobby area.

“Morning,” Bobbi calls, getting to her feet and shifting towards the front. “How are you today?”

Most people don’t wander into a tattoo parlor by accident, so she waits for the woman to tell her what she wants.

She is straight to the point.

“I need a tattoo. A small one.”

“Cool. Do you already know what you want?”

The woman nods. “A pair of initials.” She points to her ribs, a little lower than her bust. “Right here.”

Bobbi nods. “Is this your first tattoo?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Well, there’s a couple of things I need you to sign first.”

Bobbi gestures her to the counter and pulls out a disclaimer, lets the woman read over it and sign it, and then moves to the computer.

“Do you already know what font you’d like it in?”

The woman picks out a font, tells her the initials—KB—then adds that she wants it on her in a mirror image—“so I can read it in the mirror.”

Bobbi prints out a couple of options of sizes on transfer paper, and the woman strips down to her camisole, rolling it up to consider the options by holding the paper against her skin. Once she’s settled on one, Bobbi directs her to a chair and starts preparing her instruments.

“The flesh over your ribs is pretty thin,” Bobbi warns as the woman rolls up her shirt, “so you’ll probably feel some extra buzzing in your bones, besides the actual tattooing pain.”

The woman nods, getting comfortable. “I can handle it.”

“Are you ticklish on your ribs?”

The woman gives her a tired look. “No.”

Taking the hint, Bobbi doesn’t chat much as she shaves the small area and then applies alcohol to the woman’s skin. She uses the transfer paper to put the template on her, lets the woman confirm her satisfaction by checking the placement in the mirror one more time, then has her lie back on the table.

“Let me know if you want me to stop at any point,” Bobbi says, and once the woman nods, she sets to work.

The tiny tattoo takes less than five minutes, and Bobbi dabs off the area with a clean cloth before offering the woman a mirror. The two letters stare back, correct in the mirror, and the woman nods without smiling.

“Good.”

Bobbi rubs a thin layer of ointment over the skin and then covers it with a bandage—the tattoo is so small that an average-sized band-aid does the job just fine.

“No rubbing it for a few days,” Bobbi instructs as the woman puts her jacket back on. “Unscented and alcohol-free soaps only. After you shower, just pat it dry with a towel. No scratching, and keeping it moist with Aquaphor will help with the peeling. Most importantly, keep it clean—treat it like a healing wound.”

The woman nods silently as she accepts the flyer with aftercare information that Bobbi hands her. She pays by credit card and leaves without a “thank you”.

Bobbi peeks at her receipt and her disclaimer once the door shuts. A careless signature, but she can still make out the first name—Melinda.

~

Melinda is back almost a year later. Same time of day, so as usual, Bobbi is alone in the store.

“What are you interested in today?” she asks, leaning on her elbows on the counter.

As before, the woman doesn’t have much to say.

“Another pair of initials. Next to the ones from before.”

Same size. Same font. But this time: HG.

Another quick session. Another mostly-silent transaction.

Another departure without a thank you.

~

Bobbi sees Melinda several more times over the next few years. Always for initials, always in the same place. A tiny little band that slowly spreads across her ribs, then eventually expands to a second row.

Throughout the sessions, Bobbi learns little about the woman, though she observes whatever she can. Like the small collection of violent-looking scars across Melinda’s abdomen. The way her knuckles are sometimes bruised. The one time she has a healing shiner on her cheek. The one time she looks like she’s already had a drink or two that morning.

Bobbi is giving her a new pair of initials one day when Melinda surprises her by asking a question for once.

“Who’s Izzy?”

Bobbi knows exactly what makes the woman ask—she now has the name across her inner arm in calligraphy over a daffodil, a new tattoo since the last time Melinda was in her shop.

“She was like a sister to me growing up,” Bobbi says, not pausing in her tattooing. “I was a punk, and she kept an eye on me. Never asked me to stop being a punk, but she steered me in the right direction. I owe her a lot.”

“Did she get you into tattoos?” Melinda asks, and Bobbi is so thrilled that the woman is still speaking that she answers a little too quickly.

“Well, she was with me when I got my first one, and we did get matching ones later on,” Bobbi acknowledges, thinking of the twin eagles they had gotten on their ankles. “But I didn’t put her name and favorite flower on me until she died last year.”

Melinda is quiet, and Bobbi keeps working on her tattoo, worried she may have said too much. It doesn’t really hurt to say Izzy’s name the way it used to, but it always does change the feeling in the room.

When she’s finished a moment later, Melinda gets up, briefly looks in the mirror, and then rolls her shirt down.

“So I guess you know how this feels then.”

Bobbi had guessed but never asked.

“Are those friends?” She nods towards the now-hidden band of initials across Melinda’s chest.

Melinda tilts her head in a _sort of_ gesture. “Not all, but some.”

“Are you in the military?” Bobbi asks, remembering the bruised knuckles and scars.

Melinda shakes her head. “No, but sort of. Still the line of work where your co-workers get killed sometimes.”

“Police?” Bobbi guesses again, but Melinda shakes her head, picking up her jacket and heading for the counter to pay.

Bobbi gets the hint that Melinda doesn’t want her to ask any more questions, so as she runs the woman’s credit card, she takes her chance to say one more thing.

“You know, tattoos are about remembering, or they’re about telling the world something about you. You don’t seem like the kind to want the world to know your business. But it also seems like you don’t really need a tattoo’s help to remember what’s happened to you.”

Melinda is silent, and Bobbi stares at the counter and can’t decide if she wants the credit card machine to run faster or slower. Before it spits out a receipt, however, Melinda responds.

“These people died because of me, one way or another. I deserve to carry at least some part of them forever, since I’m the reason they didn’t get more time.”

Bobbi tears off the receipt and hands it to Melinda. “I get the impression you already are.”

Melinda doesn’t come back for two years.

~

When she does, she says nothing about their last meeting.

But she does have a different request.

“Do you do cover-ups?”

In most circumstances, Bobbi might be offended if a customer came to her and asked her to cover up work she’d done herself. But in this case, she feels actual relief.

“What do you have in mind?”

Melinda has a sketch with her, which she unfolds on the counter. She explains to Bobbi what she is picturing, and Bobbi nods along while the idea takes shape in her mind.

“This is going to take a lot longer than any other session you’ve done.”

Melinda gives her a look. “I can handle the pain.”

Bobbi snorts. “I believe that. I meant, do you have anywhere to be? This will take at least a couple of hours.”

Melinda shakes her head. “Nowhere to be until tomorrow.”

“Good. Let’s sketch this out on you and see what we can do.”

Melinda strips down to her sports bra and lies down on the elevated chair, and Bobbi gets a magic marker to start sketching the plant across the woman’s ribs. She uses the row of initials as a template, threading a stem and the small buds through them, and once Melinda is happy with the outline, Bobbi traces the picture out on a piece of tissue paper and sends Melinda to wash off the marker in the bathroom.

After that, everything is the same as before—waiver, stencil, shaving, cleaning, and then the actual inking. Melinda endures the pain just fine, though she does seem to get a little fidgety after an hour under the needle. Bobbi offers her a break once the linework is done, but the woman insists on continuing, so after about three hours, the whole process is finished, coloring and all. Bobbi takes a picture (with Melinda’s permission) for her portfolio, then covers it with ointment and plastic wrap.

“Aftercare is the same as always,” she reminds Melinda as the woman gets up from the table. “But if you feel like you need any touch-ups, just come back in and I’ll do them for free.”

“Thank you,” Melinda says quietly, and Bobbi is so surprised to finally hear that phrase that it must show on her face.

“Thank you for saying what you said last time,” Melinda continues. She’s still got her shirt off, and Bobbi can’t help noticing how nicely the stem of hyacinth lays along the line of her ribcage. The initials are still under there, under the buds, but the flower looks so much more forgiving than a memorial wall. “I didn’t like hearing it, but you weren’t wrong.”

Bobbi still wants to hear the story, but she’s thrilled enough by this small admission from Melinda and tries not to smile to widely.

“I think you made a great decision,” is all she says. “This is a really good look on you.”

“I may not be coming in quite as regularly,” Melinda warns as she pays (significantly more than all her previous sessions).

“Well, the freelance worker in me is disappointed,” Bobbi says, waiting on the credit card machine, “but from what I’m guessing of your story, I’m kind of glad it hear that.”

She offers the receipt for Melinda to sign, which she does, a little slower than usual.

“You can hear it if you call me,” Melinda says, pushing the receipt back across the counter. She smiles, and it’s so startling that Bobbi isn’t able to form a response until the door to the parlor closes again. Dumbly, she looks down at the receipt. Beneath the woman’s signature. She’s left her number. And a one-word message.

 _Thanks_.


End file.
